


at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: A sudden huff of warm air against his neck startles him from his thoughts. He pivots, nearly slipping in the slickness of the snow, and sees a large, bone-white wolf staring at him. The wolf’s fur is thick and heavy, with eyes the color of honeyed sunshine, and Jaskier would be afraid if he weren’t privy to every one of his witcher’s secrets.Jaskier smiles. “My, what big ears you have, my dear,” he says, softly, and reaches up to tweak at the wolf’s ears. “I suppose they are to be used for hearing better, but if that were true you would’ve heard me calling for you in our bed when I woke up alone.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 162





	at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troubadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/gifts).



> nothing special, just a short lil wolfralt fic for [dallie's](https://twitter.com/troubadorer) birthday <3

When Jaskier awakens, he knows the bed is empty and has been for quite some time. He still reaches out, though, and stuffs his fingers in the feather pillow and pulls it to his face and inhales the fresh lemongrass scent of Geralt until it is all he can think of, wrapping around him like an embrace.

He rolls about in the wrinkled, body-warm sheets for a moment, chasing the fleeting sunbeams that reach through the ruffled curtains. The fire in the hearth is large and loud, crackling like leaf litter as it’s trampled; the floor is cold beneath his bare feet but not terribly unbearable, thankfully. Geralt must’ve stoked the fire before he went off earlier. 

He washes his face with a bowl of lukewarm water and dresses warmly, in layers that weigh him down and make him feel at least twice his regular size. It’s no matter, though—Geralt will throw a fit if he finds out his bard isn’t dressing warm enough for the winter at Kaer Morhen. Besides, he’s not overly fond of the chill of winter in the mountains.

The keep is quiet when he ventures out of their room. He scoots down corridors and around corners; Vesemir, stuck deep in the library, acknowledges him with a halfhearted wave as he walks by. He sneaks out through the back door in the kitchens after kissing Ciri on the forehead, promising to have a late breakfast with her once he wrangles Geralt back in after his morning run.

Outside, the snow is so bright it’s nearly blinding; another layer dumped earlier this morning almost buried Geralt’s tracks but Jaskier finds them with only a little difficulty, having learned through the near thirty years they’ve been in one another’s company how to track his messy witcher. He follows them closely, walking in Geralt’s footprints until he’s at the edge of the forest.

Dark green stretches before him in a sea that is as endless as the ocean and just as stunning. Snow covers the pine needles; the sun makes everything sparkle gloriously, divinely, and Jaskier wishes for a moment that he brought out a sheet of parchment to jot down his thoughts. A scene such as this deserves to be remembered for centuries.

A sudden huff of warm air against his neck startles him from his thoughts. He pivots, nearly slipping in the slickness of the snow, and sees a large, bone-white wolf staring at him. The wolf’s fur is thick and heavy, with eyes the color of honeyed sunshine, and Jaskier would be afraid if he weren’t privy to every one of his witcher’s secrets.

Jaskier smiles. “My, what big ears you have, my dear,” he says, softly, and reaches up to tweak at the wolf’s ears. “I suppose they are to be used for hearing better, but if that were true you would’ve heard me calling for you in our bed when I woke up alone.”

Geralt whimpers, petulant, and leans into Jaskier’s pets. In this form, he can’t speak, but that’s okay because he’s spent nearly three decades with Geralt and in that time he has learned everything about his wolf that there is.

“Don’t give me that look, darling.” Jaskier pets his fingertips across Geralt’s face, along his muzzle, under his jowls. “I know that you like to run free in your four-legged form, but that does not mean I enjoy waking up without you.” He presses his lips to Geralt’s nose, chuckling at the wet coldness. “Our bed is too big for only me.”

Geralt’s eyes flutter; he steps into Jaskier’s body, lays his jowls on Jaskier’s shoulder and sniffs at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, scenting Jaskier as much as he can. He’s covered in snow but he’s warm and thickly-furred and heavy, and he smells like pine needles and fresh air, and Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and holds him close and breathes him in.

His witcher—his wolf—is too gentle and kind for this world. He is thought to be terribly merciless and bloodthirsty; a reaper of good souls just as well as evil with twin blades made of silver and steel. Like this, though, with his wolf in his arms and snow in his fur and huffed breaths against his ear, Jaskier thinks in wonderment how anyone could ever doubt the sweetness of Geralt.

“Come, my wolf.” Jaskier steps back and scratches his fingers up the side of Geralt’s muzzle, eliciting a whimper of affection from the big wolf. “Let’s sneak back into bed and stay there until Vesemir comes looking for us.”

Geralt huffs an amused breath and moves away, turning to look over his shoulder at Jaskier. Jaskier grins and shoves his fingers into Geralt’s fur, allowing his wolf to guide him through the thick snow and back toward the keep.

They sneak in through the door, careful to stick to the shadows that aren’t reached by the licking light from the hearth. Ciri is sitting at the table with Eskel and Lambert; the three of them are sleep-mused and adorably rumpled, talking soft and low and muffling their chuckles in the high collars of their clothes. It makes Jaskier’s chest warm to see Ciri being embraced by the wolves.

Beside him, Geralt lets out a small rumbled purr. He must be thinking the same.

The two of them continue on, offering snuffs and pets to one another to appease the cavernous ache in their chests at not being in constant contact; they cross in front of the entrance to the library and Vesemir, absorbed in whichever volume of history he’s devouring today, does not look up.

Geralt noses at the door of their bedroom, opening it wide and shutting it with a light slam as soon as Jaskier’s in. They don’t lock it, just in case, but the other occupants will surely knock before they barge into their room.

Jaskier tugs and pulls at the buttons and laces on his layers; Geralt is impatient, of course, and he nips at Jaskier’s fingers to get him to hurry along. It has the opposite effect, though, and Jaskier laughs and bats his wolf away kindly.

“Shake off and get comfortable on the bed, darling,” he says. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Geralt does as he’s told, shaking the snow and water from his fur; some of it lands on Jaskier’s face, a quick chill in the almost-stifling room. Geralt licks a bit of water off Jaskier’s cheek before he climbs atop the bed, circles twice, and lays down. His tail wags and he glowers at Jaskier with eyes that twinkle in the firelight.

Jaskier hurries to strip down to his smallclothes, nearly pulling his own two feet out from beneath himself in the process. Geralt does not take his eyes off Jaskier the entire time.

He crawls into bed once he’s dressed down, snuggling into Geralt’s chest and kicking the furs away. It takes a few seconds for the two of them to get situated comfortably; they settle eventually, with Geralt’s tail wrapped around Jaskier’s back and Jaskier’s arms wound tight about Geralt’s neck.

Jaskier sighs. “My sweet wolf,” he says, mostly to himself. “Did you have a good run this morning?”

Geralt nods, as much as he can.

“Good.” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s neck. “I do miss you when I wake up and you aren’t here, though.”

At this, Geralt whines in the back of his throat. Jaskier soothes him quickly.

“Hush, hush, darling. I only mean—the next time you feel the need to stretch your legs and run through the snow, wake me up and let me know, please.” He pets Geralt’s ears, soothing the ruffled fur there. “My beautiful, lovely wolf.” He smears another kiss against Geralt’s fur. “I love you like the thirsty earth loves a flood.”

Geralt huffs and ducks his head, pressing his wet-warm nose into Jaskier’s throat. His tail twitches, whipping delicately at the backs of Jaskier’s thighs. It makes Jaskier smile—his wolf can’t communicate verbally, but that’s no problem for someone who devotes himself to people through actions, glances and soft touches and huddling for heat when it’s cold.

“Rest, my dear. You’ve been out for hours.” Jaskier cuddles close, till he isn’t sure where either of them begin and end. “I’ll stay with you.”

Geralt does as he’s told, loosening his body until he is nothing but a big puddle of happy, relaxed wolf in Jaskier’s arms. It delights Jaskier so, to be able to hold this brave man in his arms at the end of the day and the beginning of a new one.

In a few hours, they’ll rouse around and Geralt will be a man again, and the day will go on as they often do: lazily, delightfully, with sporadic bursts of training and convening to share secrets that Vesemir has found in his volumes. That isn’t for a while, though, and Jaskier snuggles deep into Geralt’s fur, stuffing his nose at the base of Geralt’s throat, and allows the scent and feel of his wolf to ground him.

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu on twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


End file.
